


Some Enchanted Evening

by Lywinis



Series: Swords and Serpents: An Ineffable Husbands Collection [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A Certain Angel and Certain Demon catch each other slacking off, F/M, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, I just wanted besotted Crowley, M/M, Regency Shenanigans, Set after the bookshop opens but before the Holy Water conversation, and are fine with it, inspired by art on tumblr, shhhhh I do what I want, this is hastily researched
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-30 17:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: Crowley attends a party.





	Some Enchanted Evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts).

> Inspired by the lovely comic penned by [Icestorming](https://icestorming.tumblr.com/post/187427162512/i-just-really-love-drawing-aziraphale-with-their). Besotted Crowley is best Crowley.

**[An Estate just outside London, 1812]**

Crowley was hardly fond of parties.

Salons were tiresome, even the ones that were thrown by the poshest of locals. (Crowley had been to exactly one, grinned because his job was basically done already in regards to debauchery, and had found himself a nice hotel room without company for a good long nap.)

This one was not an exception; they’d taken to salons begrudgingly here in England, until they’d heard that they were all the rage in Paris. Once the Prince Regent began his reign after his father’s slide into madness, they picked up, but it still seemed tiresome.

London seemed completely behind the times, much like a certain angel who was the real reason for Crowley’s presence at this party. Perhaps that wasn’t at all fair to the London crowd, but Crowley was in a snit, so his thoughts were—as demon thoughts often are—uncharitable. He’d been doing a lot in the way of trying to get over the angel.

Ever since the Bastille, he’d been more and more aware that he had developed…Feelings. Aziraphale was a unique being, the only one Like Him on the face of the earth; other angels came and went, briefly. Aziraphale had chosen to remain on earth, to experience life with humans, just as Crowley had.

It was becoming a problem, perhaps. Demons, as far as he was aware, were not supposed to feel…things. Not these things. Lust he could explain—what demon wouldn’t want to tempt an angel to corruption? Irritation, he had that in spades, but that was normal in the course of their Arrangement. He and Aziraphale had more than their share of spats, having known each other for centuries. One step forward, two steps back, sometimes as many as five. He blew out a breath, startling a waiter who didn’t realize he was there.

Crowley snatched a flute of something alcoholic, taking a long draught as the waiter tried to remember why he’d jolted and almost spilled the tray once the demon had passed.

The only good thing about salons such as this was the amount and quality of alcohol offered. He could get stinking drunk, snap his fingers, and no one would remember his boorish behavior the next morning, should he wish it. Tonight, however, he spent the evening nursing his first drink as he wandered from room to room, listening to the chatter, but just on the outside of all the social circles. Not quite amiable enough to join in the discussion, but eyes slid over him like oil on water—it was an easy enough, minor miracle to go unnoticed until he wished it, and he used it with impunity.

It was hardly strange for him, to be on the outside looking in; it was part and parcel to his nature to be aloof when dealing with humans, and he often sought to inspire those who wore the same tattered patchwork cloak of loneliness that sat about his own shoulders.

Serpents tended to be solitary creatures, after all.

His presence here would be enough to solidify any temptation that went on as his doing, and he could be alone with his thoughts. A whispered word in the right ears, and he always had an invitation. Everyone knew Crowley.

Or, at least, he made sure they thought they did.

Now, however, the party buzzed with the talk of a genteel widow who seemed to be throwing a ball in the next month. No one could seem to agree on the date, but her attentions seemed to be in high demand. Everyone seemed to be enamored of her—the gentlemen (and Crowley used this term loosely, for most of them, _he_ knew what dwelled in their heart of hearts) especially. There seemed to be speculation that she was looking to wed again, and they thought of the untold riches she possessed, for she never seemed to want for anything.

She was frugal, they said, dressing in something that was last season, but they applauded her for letting the young fillies take center stage in their debuts. It would secure them a marriage proposal, something that would settle their ambitions and make them more malleable.

Crowley snorted at the thought, but quietly, so his glamour remained. Clearly, these men had no knowledge of women whatsoever, even in modern times. A woman was only as malleable as she allowed herself to be, and even then it wouldn’t do to underestimate her. He’d known several that would have burned these men from the inside out and they’d have thanked them for the privilege.

But still, that was neither here nor there. There was a new player in the social scene, one Crowley hadn’t heard of, and that was interesting enough to let him forget his own woes for a while.

He milled about the party, glad to find more mischief to cause as it allowed him to formulate a plan. It would frustrate more than one of these men if he were to…cut in. It would be enough to likely cause them great jealousy. Not that they weren’t heading downstairs when they finally kicked off—that had already been taken care of, what with society’s focus on wealth and means, whilst ignoring the lower classes—since money had been streamlined, that had always been the way.

Now, though, Crowley was focused on the ripple effect. If he upset them, they’d take it out on people in their lives, which would cause _them_ to do the same, and so on and so forth. A ripple of misery cast by a carefully planned stone into the waters and upsetting the natural order of this particular lake.

This would do nicely, he decided.

There was a commotion outside as a late carriage arrived, the footmen hustling to allow the guests to alight and escort them in. Crowley smiled to himself and slipped to the back of the crowd to watch the proceedings. He would need to plan his attack meticulously, and if he played his cards right, it would look like he’d done nothing at all.

Crowley settled in to watch the show.

He was not prepared.

There was a cluster of gossiping people about the entrance, all looking eagerly towards the door as they opened. He hadn’t gotten a good look, not yet. But he waited. He was a patient serpent, after all.

“The lovely mistress Fell,” said someone beside him. Crowley frowned, his brows pinching. No. Had to be a coincidence. He brought his glass to his lips to finish his sherry, only to have it slip from nerveless fingers as he finally caught sight of the comely widow that was the talk of the party. It shattered on the parquet; the sound was lost as the breath hissed out of him like he’d been punched directly in the gut.

Whatever form the corporation took, one couldn’t disguise the eyes. Angel or demon, there were some things you couldn’t change, and Crowley was staring straight at a pair of eyes that were depthless, like an unknowable sea. White-blonde hair was arranged in artful, long curls at the side of her face, the rest swept back and pinned up behind her head, woven through with ribbons that were dark blue and matched her eyes. Her neck, lengthened by the hairstyle, and her shoulders, creamy-white and tantalizing, were peppered with freckles, as though she had not a care the damage that the sun would do to her fair skin.

Really, that was true; Aziraphale wouldn’t have burned in the sun. The sun wouldn’t have dared.

Crowley had, in the moment, a fantasy; pulling her out onto the balcony, into the garden, pulling the pins from her hair and letting the locks tumble free, over his fingers like corn silk. To press his mouth to the creamy plumpness of her shoulder, lave his tongue over the freckles sprinkled there.

Perhaps, if he was wily enough, he could convince her to let him slip his hands beneath her skirts—

“Really, Mister Crowley, so clumsy,” said a young lady next to him.

He glanced at her, a slip of a girl who’d been angling to catch his eye for the longest. She was ambitious, he’d give her that. She had dreams of marriage for her own sake, an income that would allow her to pursue reading and learning. She’d make a formidable woman, once she reined in the idea that he was even remotely in want of a wife and turned her attentions elsewhere.

“Apologies, Miss Cabot. I’ll find someone to clear that up, so that you may dance to your heart’s content.” He slipped off into the crowd, leaving her standing there, her hand clenched around her fan.

He could feel her frustrations radiating off her in waves, but that wasn’t his fault. Well, perhaps it was. But she’d get over it.

Eventually.

“—ah, but you’ve let me talk your ears off, you dear gentlemen,” Aziraphale was saying as he got closer. She twirled her right hand, her elegantly painted fan catching and wafting the scent of her perfume to Crowley’s sensitive nose. Ozone and apples, old paper and ink, a floral undertone, he breathed her in, snagging a flute of champagne from another waiter’s tray as he slithered through the crowds. “Would someone mind fetching me a glass of—”

Crowley was there, placing the glass into her hand before she finished speaking. Aziraphale stopped, blinking at it.

“—something?” She blinked, her eyes focusing on Crowley at last. “Oh!”

“Hello, a—madame,” Crowley purred, offering her an elegant, courtly bow. “Been some time.”

“Mister Crowley,” she breathed, as though remembering how. “Do excuse me, gentlemen, I must take my leave. Might I impose upon you, Mister Crowley? I find I’m in need of air.”

“Of course,” he said, offering her his arm. She took it, keeping polite distance, but he could feel the heat of her plump palm through his coat. The crowd had ceased to exist for Crowley, the impetus of his world narrowing to the angel beside him.

Drink finished, she was radiant as he expected, her eyes dancing in the lights that were strung about the dance floor as they skirted the edges of the party toward the expansive gardens.

“So, why are you here, my dear boy?” she asked, her tone light as she returned nods of greeting while they passed. Crowley did the same, though it was hard to resist the urge to ignore social nicety and focus his whole attention on Aziraphale.

He cleared his throat. “The same thing you are, I imagine.”

“Here for temptation?” she asked, running her finger along the top of her fan. “I should think they get up to enough trouble without that.”

“Yes, well,” he said softly. “Can’t exactly get out of it, can I?”

“Mm,” she said, as they slipped out onto the balcony. “I was rather hoping for a look at Lady Windemere’s library, you see. She has an exquisitely bound copy of _Kelroy_ that I’d like to convince her to trade to me.”

“Still hunting for fodder for your shop?” he asked.

“Hardly,” she said, shaking her head. “I merely would like a copy.”

Ah, so it was for her personal collection. It was, indeed, for the shop, then. Crowley chuckled. They separated once outside, standing a few more inches apart as they took in the evening air. The music was muted here, a dull roar below the noise of conversation, almost drowned out by the night insects that called in the hedges.

“You know, Crowley, I thought you were gone,” she said. “I haven’t seen you since 1800.”

“Well, it’s only been a decade,” he said. “We’d get looks if we…mm. Met up too often.”

She opened and shut her fan, a little too quickly. Crowley glanced at her, turning his attention back to her.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“No,” she said, resting it against her right cheek. “I’m just…surprised, is all. Didn’t think you went in for something like this.”

“I’ve been known to enjoy a party,” he said. “Though I hadn’t expected you here tonight.”

She glanced up at him. “Why is that?”

“Wasn’t—” He caught himself. He hadn’t been prepared to see her. He cleared his throat. “Should have had a wile for you to thwart.”

She laughed, a giggle that was far too unladylike to belong to anyone but Aziraphale. “Oh, Crowley. I’m not here on business, why should _you_ be? Let’s just…enjoy the evening?”

He conceded the point. “All right, angel, as you wish.”

She smiled at him, and for a moment, Crowley almost believed this meeting was nothing but social.

* * *

She remained beside him for most of the evening. It felt almost like a fever dream, looking over and seeing the angel, her soft hair curling about her face as she shot him an impish look around a bite of hors d'oeuvres. Fetching her another flute of champagne, swapping to punch afterwards, and even helping the servants uncover a fine stash of wine later on (a minor demonic miracle of his own, but the angel’s delight at the red was enough to convince him). Her dance card remained empty, allowing the younger girls to take turns waltzing about the floors with the gentlemen at the party.

In fact, she seemed content to remain a wallflower with him, settling at a table with him as they watched the goings on.

“You’re not dancing, angel?” he asked, a teasing note in his voice.

“Not going to embarrass myself,” she said, smiling at him. “Not where you can laugh at me.”

“Never,” he said, the warm wash of good wine loosening his tongue. “There would be a line of these young bucks who’d fight for the chance to fill up your card.”

“Please,” she said, flushing. “None of them are even slightly interested in me. They want what they perceive as my fortune.”

“They’re fools,” he said, waving a hand.

“Are they?” she asked, pressing her fan’s handle against the corner of her mouth.

“’Course they are,” he said. “Much more enjoyable to spend an evening with you.”

“Oh, Crowley,” she said. The fan slipped from her fingers, and he bent to pick it up, noticing the painting on the inside for the first time. The outside had been a lovely rendering of Samson and Delilah—and Crowley remembered it far better than the artist had, likely.

But the back… Even stylized, he recognized the Wall where they’d met, the black coils of the serpent surrounding the angel atop it, Eden behind them and—

He nearly dropped it again.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

"Wh—ngk—I'm—Me? Fine. Fine. Just...wine went down the wrong way. 's nothing." He set the closed fan on the table beside her hand.

“Perhaps we should sober up, my dear.” She pressed her fingers to her painted lips. “It’s near dawn as it is.”

That was true enough, he saw. The slow lightening of the sky was enough that it warned of the sun’s rise. Even the most engaged of party-goers would likely retire to their beds before long, their feet sore and their hangovers legendary. Partially because of the enjoyment of the two immortals among them, perhaps, that they’d celebrated with such vigor.

“Of course,” he said, offering her his arm once more. “To the gardens?”

“Lovely,” she said. She kept close as they walked the carefully raked gravel path, until they found somewhere rather private to conduct the nasty business of sobering up. There, behind the hedge, the angel and demon got rid of the copious amount of alcohol needed to get them drunk in the first place.

Crowley licked his lips, wrinkling his nose at the sour taste sobering left on his tongue before he willed it away.

“I…had quite a lot of fun. Thank you, for tonight,” Aziraphale said, softly. So softly, no one but Crowley would have heard it, but he still flinched as though burned.

“Not so loudly, angel,” he said. “I’m sure you know what our sides would do to us if they knew.”

He swallowed hard, cutting his eyes away. “But…I enjoyed it, too. A-and the dress. It suits you.”

The smile that Aziraphale wore might have blotted out the sun, had it risen yet. Instead, he just got an eyeful of Aziraphale’s genuine enjoyment of the compliment.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“_Aziraphale_!” Crowley hissed. “How many times do I have to—"

The angel stepped closer, putting a plump hand on his forearm as she stood on tiptoe to press her lips to the corner of his mouth. Crowley froze. For a moment, his mind stopped, the hiss of static almost overwhelming as he blinked, something he almost never did.

“I _am_ sorry, Crowley,” she said, fluttering her lashes at him. “I simply can’t help myself. You’ve had me at sixes and sevens all night. I must get back to the shop now, though.”

She patted his cheek and was gone in a flutter of skirts, the scent of her perfume lingering on the morning dew.

* * *

“Look what I found,” Crowley said, holding up the frock to the sunlight. They’d been organizing the many chests of clothing Aziraphale owned; while Crowley loved miracling what he wore and changed it often, Aziraphale purchased many of his outfits and kept them in good repair. Now, however, they needed to make sure it was all neatly stored—going away to the South Downs would mean closets of space and Aziraphale had insisted.

And when could Crowley deny the angel anything?

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, coloring slightly. “I remember that.”

“Do you?” Crowley practically purred.

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale said. “I’d been signaling with my fan that I’d quite like to kiss you all night, but you ignored me.”

Crowley sputtered, nearly dropping the gown. “What?”

“Well, yes! I had been there because I was hoping to see you and I thought…and then you asked me for that dreadful—” Aziraphale’s fingers began twisting in on themselves. “It was the fan. I wanted—”

“You know I introduced that to help them sell more fans, right?” he asked.

Aziraphale winced. “I did _not_. No wonder it didn’t work. None of the ladies I’d spoken with had heard of it, either.”

“Angel, you could have asked.” Crowley said, still a little loopy with the idea.

“I did ask,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Well…we could redo it…” Crowley said.

“Not in that dress,” Aziraphale said. “Not being able to wear underthings was always frightfully…much for me.”

Crowley groaned, burying his face in his hands. “And I missed it?!”

Aziraphale sighed. “You’ll crinkle the linen, dear.”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the frock was on a hanger, tucked neatly into the box to be shipped before he stalked over to the angel, pulling him close and kissing him.

He had quite a lot of time to make up for, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to anyone who actually has a better grasp on the Regency period than I do - but I wanted to write a thing. I did write that thing, and I am not looking for concrit, thank you. (No, I'm serious, please don't, I'm already tired enough from work as it is, I don't need something else bogging down my writing, this was just a silly thing.)
> 
> Yes, the fan language thing was [a myth](https://www.sothebys.com/en/articles/the-secret-language-of-fans) perpetuated by a fan seller. I've fudged the timelines a bit, but yes. 
> 
> I'm trying a new thing with my drabbles. I'm going to publish them as one shots, for tagging purposes - you ought to be able to find your favorites much easier this way, and that way it's not...overwhelming for a reader, haha. _Sing to Me, O Solomon_ will remain completed, but it's been included in the series, so people can peruse it at their leisure.


End file.
